Bertolt Brecht: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder 3

  The Worker goes to the window, while the Mother returns to the bench. He whistles sharply, then makes a quick jerk of the head. He returns to the seat. After a moment the Teacher comes in, puffing, excited, carrying a large yellow grip. He sets it down, takes off his hat and wipes his face.

  THE TEACHER: No, no, no. You have no right to ask this of me. It’s too dangerous. I’ll lose my position, and then I’ll be of no use either to you people or to myself. I won’t be able to give you any advice when I’m in jail, you know.

  THE WORKER: It’s more important for you to carry our literature.

  THE MOTHER: Be quiet, Sostakovich. We thank you for bringing the grip, Nikolai Ivanovich. You see: you can carry it through the streets without suspicion. We can’t. When they see you everybody says: ‘The poor man, he has so much learning he can’t carry it all in his head any more.’

  THE TEACHER: I was followed.

  THE MOTHER: Followed?

  THE WORKER: You’re sure?

  THE TEACHER: I looked behind, and here’s a fellow with a dark coat following me. I cross the street. He crosses the street. I turn the corner: he turns the corner. I walk faster: he walks faster. I think I’ve seen him around the house before. There was something familiar about the look in his eyes. He has two warts on his cheek running up from his mouth, so he looks like he’s sneering all the time.

  THE MOTHER: What did you do?

  THE TEACHER: I jumped in a cab.

  THE WORKER: And the spy? Did he jump in a cab too?

  THE TEACHER: I didn’t see him any more. He takes a bundle of pamphlets out of his grip, wrapped in the green shawl, like a peasant’s bundle. Here are the pamphlets, Mrs Vlassova. I must go now.

  THE MOTHER as voices are heard outside: You must both go. There are people getting on the train.

  THE WORKER rising: Now remember: at the first stop Andrei will get on the train and say: ‘Is there room for me beside your bundle, mother?’ And you say: ‘There’s always room for one of the Czar’s soldiers.’ That’s the password. Then you take his bundle, and he takes yours, and it’s done.

  THE MOTHER: Go, go. I’ll remember.

  THE WORKER: But what if they catch you?

  THE MOTHER: I’ll say I don’t know anything about it. Somebody just smuggled them into my bundle.

  THE TEACHER: They won’t believe that.

  THE MOTHER: Then I’ll think of something. I’ve passed out literature before. Now go.

  THE WORKER hesitating: You won’t be afraid, Pelagea Vlassova?

  THE MOTHER: Nobody asks any other member (of the Party) if they’re afraid. Why do you ask me?

  THE TEACHER: Goodbye, Pelagea Vlassova. Take care of yourself. Other people come into the compartment, one at a time: first a big burly soldier; then a man with a dark coat, the collar of which is turned up over his face; then a middle-aged working woman.

  THE MOTHER: Goodbye, Nikolai Ivanovich. Goodbye, Sostakovich. For the benefit of the newcomers: Tell your wife if she makes any more lace to send it to me. In my village I’ll always be able to sell such fine lace.

  The two men leave. The train passengers begin to settle down. The bell rings and a voice cries: ‘All aboard!’

  THE SOLDIER: Well, we’re moving.

  THE MOTHER relieved: Yes, we’re moving.

  THE WORKING WOMAN: It’s so cold in here.

  THE MOTHER: They’ve got to save on coal, haven’t they? What would the generals and the big people have, if they used up all the coal on us? The Soldier is beating his arms and stamping his feet. You soldier: are you cold, too?

  THE SOLDIER: What do you think? I carry a stove with me?

  THE MOTHER: But you’re going to the front, aren’t you?

  THE SOLDIER: Yes, and you freeze plenty there, too.

  THE MOTHER: But you’ll be fighting for the Czar. That should warm your heart.

  THE SOLDIER: It don’t warm your toes, grandma. Especially when this is the kind of shoes you got on your feet – Showing her the holes in his soles. And this is the kind of coat you got to wear. Showing her his torn overcoat.

  THE MOTHER: What do you care if you freeze? The important thing is that the generals don’t freeze. Plain people like you and me: couple of frozen toes don’t hurt them much.

  THE SOLDIER ripping off a piece of loose leather from his torn shoe: I wonder how the Czar would like to fight in shoes like this.

  THE WORKING WOMAN: I have two sons at the front. I hate to think of them lying in the snow and ice all winter with torn coats and holes in their shoes.

  THE MOTHER: Oh, a few common soldiers like that: that don’t make no difference. If they freeze, there are always plenty more. What we’ve got to think about is beating the Germans so we can get Turkey.

  THE SOLDIER: Get what?

  THE MOTHER: Turkey. And Galicia and Armenia too. But first of all we’ve got to pay the bankers back for their loans. Why should you want a new coat and shoes when we’ve got to pay the bankers? The man in the dark overcoat gets up and crosses the compartment.

  THE MAN: Excuse me. I don’t like to ride backwards. He stands looking down at the Mother. Do you mind if I move your bundle?

  THE MOTHER: Sit over there. I don’t want my eggs broken.

  THE MAN: I thought it was lace you had.

  THE MOTHER looking up at him, cautiously: Eggs too.

  THE MAN: I’d like to sit near the window. I’m not feeling well. Suddenly reaching out for the bundle. I’ll put it overhead for you.

  THE MOTHER rising and snatching the bundle from him: Don’t you – His coat collar has dropped down and now she sees the two warts on his face running up from his mouth, so that he looks as if he were sneering. She stands in confusion a moment. You leave my bundle alone.

  THE MAN: What makes your eggs so heavy?

  The Mother has an impulse to run out; she even looks toward the door; then she conquers it, sets the bundle down squarely on the same spot on the bench, and sits down.

  THE MOTHER loudly: Such fresh people you meet on the trains these days. No respect, not even to an old woman like me. After five minutes, they want to look through your bundle. They want to know how many eggs you’ve got and how big they are. I suppose now I have to take out the wood-carvings I bought to sell in my village and show them to every stranger in the car.

  THE MAN: So it’s wood-carvings now.

  THE MOTHER feigning to grow more furious: I tell you, you can’t trust nobody these days. The country’s full of German spies. They count every bite we put in our mouths so they can write back and tell the Kaiser we’re starving. It’s true we don’t get the right food to eat, and the cost of living’s so high poor people can’t eat at all, but why should the Germans know about it?

  THE SOLDIER looking at the man with hostility: You better sit down where you were, mister.

  THE MAN: But I just –

  THE SOLDIER: Sit down and leave the old woman alone.

  The Man sits down on the opposite seat. The Mother smiles at the Soldier.

  THE MOTHER: Thank you.

  The train has meanwhile slowed up. The conductor’s voice calls out

  ‘Nijni. Nijni’ And a moment later: ‘All aboard for Gulityan. All aboard!’

  THE WORKING WOMAN looking out on the platform: More soldiers. They look so young.

  THE SOLDIER: It’s them kids they’re getting in the new draft. Poor kids: they don’t know what they’re getting into.

  THE WORKING WOMAN: Pretty soon there won’t be any young men left in the country at all.

  A soldier with his coat collar up comes into the coach. He looks into the compartment, enters slowly, and then walks over to the Mother.

  SECOND SOLDIER: Is there any room for me beside your bundle, mother?

  At the voice the Mother starts and looks up quickly. It is Pavel. A long pause. Then she masters herself and answers slowly.

  THE MOTHER: There’s always room for one of the Czar’s soldiers.

  He sits down beside her, placin
g a large bundle which looks very much like hers, between his feet.

  PAVEL stretching, and sighing in relief: Agh! Thank God I’m here.

  THE SOLDIER: Just back from a furlough, buddy?

  PAVEL: Furlough! I haven’t had a furlough for three years. How would you feel, mother, if you hadn’t seen your son for three years?

  THE MOTHER: If I believed in my son, I could wait.

  PAVEL: And what would you say to him when you saw him, mother?

  THE MOTHER: I’d say: ‘It’s good to see you, son. I know you had work to do and you couldn’t come any sooner.’

  PAVEL: I think a man would like a mother like that.

  THE SOLDIER: Have you got a son at the front, grandma?

  THE MOTHER: Me? No! But I’ve got a nephew. A fine boy! He’s a lieutenant now. If only the war lasts long enough, he’s sure to be a captain. Two or three more battles – that’s all it takes and he gets gold braid on his shoulders. That is, if enough people get killed, of course.

  PAVEL: Aren’t you afraid he might be shot, mother?

  THE MOTHER: Who? My nephew? Oh, no! Not him. They’ll never send him to the front-line trenches. His father’s a rich man: a big textile manufacturer in Kostroma. My nephew, he’s got it good. He’s in the commissary department.

  PAVEL: Do you think it’s right for the rich people to buy safe places for their sons?

  THE MOTHER: Excuse me, it’s their war, isn’t it!

  PAVEL: But we fight it.

  THE MOTHER: You’ve heard the old expression: a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight. Sure, you fight it; but just for that reason don’t think it’s your war. It isn’t. It’s the rich people’s war. Be glad you’re allowed to fight in it, but don’t claim too much.

  THE WORKING WOMAN: Oh, now I’m all confused. They told us the war’s for all of us, to save us from the Germans.

  THE MOTHER looking over at the man with the dark coat: That’s just spies. Spies! The country’s full of German spies.

  THE WORKING WOMAN shaking her head bewildered, sighing: If only we had peace!

  THE MOTHER: The poor are always crying for peace. The rich are more patriotic. They don’t want peace.

  PAVEL: There was a man in my company who was shot for saying that, mother.

  THE MOTHER: Saying what?

  PAVEL: It’s a rich man’s war. He was organising soldiers’ councils and told them that. So smack up against the wall he went. ‘Company, fire!’ And that was the end of him. Nice fellow, too. His name was Andrei.

  The Mother makes a little involuntary gesture, but controls herself.

  THE SOLDIER: Are there lots of those councils in your sector, soldier?

  PAVEL: Yes, lots of them.

  THE SOLDIER: There don’t seem to be any in mine.

  PAVEL: What division you in?

  THE SOLDIER: Ninth. Company C, light artillery.

  PAVEL looking at him to fix the face in his mind: They’ll show up by and by. I hear they’re spreading like wildfire. Officers don’t seem to like them. But the soldiers: they eat them up and yell for more. A little pause. Yes, nice young fellow. Smart too. When he died he yelled: ‘Long live the working class! Long live the workers’ and soldiers’ Soviets!’ His name was Andrei.

  There is a long tense pause. Everybody in the car looks at him. The Mother, conscious of the staring of the Spy, breaks the silence with:

  THE MOTHER: Well, all I say is that if only the war lasts long enough, my nephew will be a captain.

  The train has slowed down and the conductor outside cries: ‘Gorodskoy! Gorodskoy! Change to Kiev.’

  PAVEL picking up the Mother’s bundle, and leaving his at her feet: Well, here’s where I get off. To the Soldier. Goodbye, soldier. Give my regards to the Ninth Division, Company C, light artillery. Turning to the Mother. And mother, here’s hoping your nephew becomes a captain.

  The Spy suddenly gets up and seizes Pavel by the arm.

  SPY: Here, wait a minute. He’s got her bundle.

  PAVEL: Whose bundle?

  SPY shouting at the top of his voice: He’s a thief. He stole her bundle. Hey, police! Police!

  THE MOTHER: He’s crazy. Here’s my bundle. He hasn’t got my bundle. This is my bundle right here.

  SPY bellowing: He’s a thief! Police! Police!

  The compartment is instantly thrown into confusion. Everybody rises. The Spy grapples with Pavel for the bundle. Pavel thrusts the man back and runs out of the compartment. Outside the cry: ‘All aboard! All aboard!’ Bells, and the train moves again.

  SPY struggling to his feet: Hold him! He’s a thief, a thief! Hold him! The Mother runs to the door and blocks it against the Spy who now attempts to pursue Pavel.

  THE MOTHER: No, you! You’re the thief. That soldier didn’t take anything from me. But you, you took my money. Appealing to the others in the compartment. When he sat down beside me he took my money away.

  THE SPY savagely: Get out of the way, you old witch.

  He gives her a shove, but she clings to him desperately.

  THE MOTHER: Soldier! Help me! hold him! He’s got my money, soldier.

  The Soldier gets up, swings the Spy around, and pins him against the bench.

  THE SOLDIER: Now, wait a minute, brother . . .

  THE SPY: Let go. He’s getting away. I’ve got to get out here.

  THE SOLDIER very deliberately, holding him helpless: Well, what’s your hurry? Take it easy. He searches the man’s pockets.

  THE SPY struggling: You . . . you fool! Get your hands out of my pockets. They’re revolutionists! They’re Bolsheviks!

  THE SOLDIER calmly pulling out some money: Is this it, grandma?

  THE MOTHER: No. It was tied up in a handkerchief.

  THE SPY: Let go, I tell you!

  THE SOLDIER calmly completing his search: Well, there don’t seem to be any handkerchief, grandma. You sure this ain’t it? Holding the Spy down viciously with his knee, and holding up the money.

  THE MOTHER: No. No, it was a big red handkerchief with a knot.

  THE SOLDIER lifting his arms: Well . . .

  The Spy breaks out of his relaxed grip, rushes to the aisle, and shouts:

  THE SPY: Police! Police! Hurry up! In here, in here!

  The conductor and a policeman come rushing in. The train is moving fast now.

  THE POLICEMAN AND CONDUCTOR: Who’s shouting? What’s the matter?

  THE SPY: Illegal literature. They’re giving it to the soldiers. Bolsheviks, that’s what they are. Traitors! The man got away. That old devil there, she was carrying it in her bundle.

  THE MOTHER: In my bundle? But there’s nothing in my bundle but a few pieces of lace. Look, I’ll show you . . .

  She goes to open the bundle, but the Spy snatches it away.

  THE SPY: Yeah, so light all of a sudden. The wood carving all sold, I suppose. He pulls it apart and holds up a few dirty old rags. You’re a clever old jailbird, aren’t you? Lace!

  THE MOTHER feigning modesty: Well, it didn’t seem nice to say it was dirty linen.

  THE SPY snorting with rage: Nice! He stands indecisive a moment; then he flings the rags furiously down. Next time I’ll know how to handle you, grandma. He stalks out, flinging after the conductor and policeman. Come on.

  The conductor and policeman leave, spreading their hands in bewilderment to one another.

  THE WORKING WOMAN: So he really was a spy.

  THE MOTHER: Yes. He really was a spy.

  THE SOLDIER: Are you a revolutionist, grandma?

  THE MOTHER: Yes, I’m a revolutionist.

  THE SOLDIER: I thought as much. He thinks a moment. Too bad you didn’t save some of that lace for me.

  THE MOTHER: There’s always a bit extra for one of the Czar’s soldiers.

  And stooping down, she pulls out a pamphlet from under her skirt and gives it to him. Don’t forget to pass it on.

  Blackout.

  [Brecht Archive 443/43–52, text of the Theatre Union adaptation by Paul Peters.
Brecht then made a German version which, say the notes in Stücke 3 in the Berlin and Frankfurt edition of 1988, remained unpublished and unperformed. This was titled ‘Eisenbahnszene’ (Railway Scene) in Margarete Steffin’s handwriting, and is included on pp. 391–398 of that volume under the heading ‘Annex: draft scene 1935’. Among other things it cuts down the American stage directions and eliminates some characters.]

  THE EXCEPTION AND THE RULE

  Texts by Brecht

  ‘THE EXCEPTION AND THE RULE’

  – a short play for schools . . . was written in 1930. Collaborators: Elisabeth Hauptmann and Emil Burri. There is a musical setting by Paul Dessau.

  [Prefixed to the text in Versuche 15, 1950. Dessau is not termed a ‘collaborator’, because his music was not written till 1948.]

  NOTES

  The ‘Lehrstück’ The Exception and the Rule is supposed to have been written in 1931. It is meant to show how relentlessly the possessive class conducts the class war, even where large sections of the productive class are not yet fighting. The possessive class acts in every situation as directed by the assumption that the productive class will resist it.

  It is good if one of the two choruses provides an example from history. At the present day, for instance, the Right chorus can perform the following:

  [Note for an incomplete project c. 1936 for a version with two choruses. The speech that follows is in another typescript of the same date. Both are in Schriften 4, Berlin and Frankfurt edition, 1991, pp. 109 and 490.]

  SPEECH

  I take the following examples from the history of my own country. When Hitler seized power, a profound discontent prevailed among the lower levels of the populace – the coolies of my country. Nevertheless there was no rebellion. In less time than it takes to build a house, Hitler destroyed the coolies’ power by throwing all their leaders into prison and cancelling all their rights. In other words he treated them exactly as if they had made a bloody rebellion. He even set fire to a public building and treated the lower orders exactly as though they had burned it themselves. He did this on the ground, so he said, that because they were hungry they had every reason to rebel bloodily. They might not have put that into practice, but who can say? Let us treat them as rebels, then there will be no rebellion. That was wise. A year later there was discontent among those who had won the power for him, because they had not got what they had been promised. However, before they could rebel he had their leaders arrested and shot, and threw many of them into prison, with the result that a rebellion was avoided. He told himself: are they not hungry, and did I not make promises to them? They have cause for rebellion. I shall treat them as rebels. That again was wise. It is the only possible way to act if one wishes to rule.